


Hold Your Breath And Count To Ten

by capeswithhoods



Series: No Escaping Gravity [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger Management, Drama, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capeswithhoods/pseuds/capeswithhoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's making more progress than he thinks he is."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hold Your Breath And Count To Ten

"My problem isn't that I'm too _angry_ , it's that I'm too _everything_ and not one of you can ever understand that. This isn't going to help me, because frankly, listening to him whine about how he got written up at work for _getting an attitude_ with his boss, or listening to her complain about how her boyfriend just makes her _so mad_ doesn't compare to any of what I'm feeling _all the fucking time_ and it actually just serves to _piss me off more_." Grantaire takes a deep breath and even from halfway across the circle of chairs, Bahorel can see that he's shaking.

Grantaire stands there, not meeting anyone's eyes for a moment before he looks up at the instructor, says, "I'm not coming back," and turns on his heel so fast he nearly knocks into the chair he'd previously occupied on his way out of the room.

Bahorel watches him go and bites his lip before he raises his hand to grab the instructor's attention. "Do you mind if I go talk to him?" he asks, unsure if this will count against his court order since it's only his second meeting and he's technically asking to leave early, but she looks pleased with him.

"If you can get him to come back next time we meet, I'd really appreciate it. He's making more progress than he thinks he is," she says, and she even smiles at Bahorel as he leaves the circle to follow after Grantaire.

He's honestly surprised that Grantaire isn't gone already, but Bahorel finds him leaning against the building once he gets outside, and he lingers in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Hey, you okay?" he finally asks, and he probably could have done better than that, but it gets Grantaire's attention at any rate.

"Do I _look_ fucking okay to you?" Grantaire snaps, glaring up at Bahorel for a moment before stuffing his hands into his pockets and exhaling loudly as he looks bak away.

"Not really. I meant do you wanna talk about it over a beer?"

Grantaire visibly relaxes a little, though his shoulders are still tense. "Why do you even give a shit?"

Bahorel offers a grin. "We're friends now, aren't we, R?" He takes a few steps closer, but there's still a couple feet between them, and it's probably for the best. "So what do you say?"

"...yeah, sure. Alright." Grantaire pushes himself away from the building, but his hands remain in his pockets and he continues to avoid looking at Bahorel. "You're buying again."

"Only if you buy next time," Bahorel responds, but he's still grinning, mostly because he planned on buying Grantaire at least one drink anyway.

That earns him a glance from Grantaire and what he thinks might even be the ghost of a smile. Better than nothing, and definitely an improvement over his mood in the meeting. "We'll see."

"Fair enough."

\------

Grantaire doesn't start really talking until he's on his third drink, and Bahorel is only a little upset about the fact that he's spent a good chunk of his grocery money for the week.

"My therapist thinks those meetings are supposed to help me," he says, and Bahorel trails his finger along the rim of his glass while he listens, condensation and beer gathering just below his fingernail. "He knows anger management isn't my problem. But apparently it's supposed to help me control my emotions in general. Not just when I get mad."

Bahorel doesn't know how to politely ask what Grantaire is seeing a therapist for, or why he needs to control his emotions, so he doesn't, and lifts his finger to suck the collected condensation and beer off of it.

Grantaire takes a long gulp from his glass and sets it down almost empty. "I think I'm gonna stop going."

"To the meetings?" Bahorel asks, resting an elbow on the bar and leaning his head against his hand.

Grantaire shrugs. "And to my therapist. I don't really like him." He pauses and Bahorel watches the way he stares into his beer like it has all the world's answers in it before he finishes it off. "He makes me feel stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid," Bahorel says in the most matter-of-fact tone he can manage.

"You don't even _know_ me. You don't know shit." Grantaire stares forlornly at his empty glass and Bahorel thinks about getting him another, but given the current mood he decides against it.

"I'd like to get to know you."

"You're an idiot and a masochist."

Bahorel raises an eyebrow. "How do you figure _that_?"

"You have to be to spend time around me." There's so much self-loathing in Grantaire's voice that Bahorel wants to sling an arm around his shoulder and tell him he seems pretty cool and that he shouldn't be so down on himself, but that's another thing he's fairly certain is a bad idea. He might get punched, which wouldn't be great, all things considered, because he really does like this bar, and he really does want to be friends with Grantaire.

"As someone who gets hit in the face sort of regularly, I can assure you that spending time with you is a hell of a lot less painful." Bahorel smiles at Grantaire and hopes he believes him.

"Oh. Brain damage. That explains it, then," Grantaire mumbles, though he's actually smiling back, and Bahorel feels pretty damn accomplished. "Why _do_ you get hit so much?"

"I like fighting," Bahorel admits. "Probably a little too much, since that's what landed me in those meetings with you."

Grantaire eyes Bahorel's drink, but he doesn't ask for another, instead he asks, "What actually happened? You have a tendency to avoid explaining whenever anyone asks."

"Got in a fight in the wrong place at the wrong time." He takes a long drink of beer. "I might've broken a conseiller général's nose. Uh."

Grantaire actually laughs at that, and the sound is something Bahorel endeavours to hear again, with regularity. "You're trouble."

"Is that a problem?" Bahorel asks, grinning again, because this conversation is going a lot better than he'd expected.

"Nah. Trouble can be fun, right?"

"A man after my own heart!" Bahorel exclaims, grin brightening even more. "We should hang out sometime other than after meetings. I promise I'll try my hardest to keep any and all trouble to a minimum."

Grantaire contemplates it for a moment then nods, a smile threatening to upturn his lips. "I guess that'd be okay."

Bahorel goes home with a new number stored in his phone under 'R' and he has every intention of calling him within the next couple days for coffee, and maybe even to join him at one of his friend Enjolras' meetings.


	2. Then Fall Apart And Start Again

Grantaire stumbles and almost falls, but he catches himself against a lamppost before he can become intimately aquatinted with the pavement.

The sky above him is dark, fading into light blue at the horizon off to the East, and there are still stars dotting the darkest parts of it. He slides down to the sidewalk, back against the metal post, and stares up at the pinpricks of light, feeling absolutely infinitesimal.

"F-fuck."

The street around him looks vaguely familiar, but not enough so that he knows which way to go if he were to get up and try his hand at navigating his way home. The realisation is enough to make a ball of panic knot in his stomach, shortening his breath and quickening his pulse. He pulls his phone out and stares at it for a while, trying to figure out what to do, and before he can think about it too much, he's making a phone call.

It rings four times and Grantaire is about to hang up when Bahorel's groggy voice answers, "...nmm hello?"

"Hi. I um. Fuck. I'm... I'm sorry I didn't mean to... wake you up."

There's silence from Bahorel's end for a moment, and Grantaire hears shifting that might be him rolling over in bed. "R?"

"Yeah I..." Grantaire glances around again, and the wave of panic makes him feel nauseous. "I don't know where I... am."

"What d'you mean?"

"I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm just... Go back to sleep, okay? Okay."

"R, wait." The drag of a blanket sends static down the line. "Do you need me to come get you?"

"No, no you don't... Go back to bed I didn't mean to wake you up I'm fine." Grantaire is sure he's not being entirely convincing, but he shouldn't have called Bahorel in the first place, especially not so late, and especially since they'd only exchanged numbers earlier in the day. Or was it yesterday, now?

There's more shifting, then, "Can you tell me what's around? I'm gonna come meet you, okay? We'll get some coffee."

Grantaire describes the buildings around him, and doesn't think Bahorel is actually coming, but he doesn't move anyway, remaining slumped against the lamppost while he counts the minutes. It only serves to make him feel worse about everything, and he nearly vomits when he gets to twenty seven minutes.

The street around him is mostly empty, and when a loud roar begins to echo off the buildings, Grantaire thinks for one irrationally terrified second that the city is turning in on itself, folding like a black hole has opened in the centre of it.

Then a motorcycle glides up to the curb near him, all slick black and shiny chrome and roaring ignition until it's cut off, and Grantaire doesn't need the driver to take his helmet off to know it's Bahorel. When he does, he shakes his head to get his hair out of his eyes, but it doesn't change the fact that it's a mess - from sleep, presumably, coupled with being under the helmet.

"You came," Grantaire says in drunken disbelief, and he doesn't try to stand just yet. The pavement isn't terribly uncomfortable anyway. He's pretty sure he could've stayed here all night if he needed to, and he probably should have.

"Of course I did," Bahorel replies with a smile, and he swings one long leg over the side of the bike before setting his helmet down on the seat. "Should I ask what happened?"

Grantaire shakes his head and stops abruptly because the movement makes him feel sea-sick. He's never been at sea though, so he's only guessing that this is what it feels like. "...everything's... moving."

Bahorel crouches down next to him and holds a gloved hand out. "Wanna go somewhere more stable?"

Grantaire eyes the hand for a moment before reaching out and grabbing it, feeling the warmth of his palm even through the leather. "I just... I just wanted it to.. stop. That's all." He's not surprised that Bahorel looks confused, but he doesn't know how to explain. "I don't think I can stand up."

"I can help, if that's okay." Bahorel starts to stand, slowly, and he doesn't let go of Grantaire's hand, but he's not holding on tight enough that he couldn't slip away if he wanted to. "Wanna try? I did promise you coffee and I don't think this would be the most comfortable spot to drink it."

Standing, as it turns out, isn't the hard part - it's getting onto Bahorel's motorcycle without falling over. It takes a few tries, and Bahorel has to catch him more than once, but Grantaire manages to get on and wrap his arms hesitantly around Bahorel's waist after putting the helmet on with much insistence from Bahorel.

\------

There are flashes of things Grantaire remembers when he wakes up - being lost, a motorcycle, the familiar feeling of a cold toilet bowl beneath his palms, though someone was smoothing his hair back away from his face, and it had to be Bahorel, because he remembers calling him, too, and there's a wave of intense embarrassment at the thought.

He's in an unfamiliar bed and there's a moment of panic because God, what did he _do_? But he's still in his clothes and the only pillow in the bed is the one he'd slept on.

Once he wakes up a bit more, enough to be aware of his surroundings, he notices a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on the small table next to the bed, and Grantaire feels inexplicably guilty about it. He reaches for the bottle and dumps out a few white tablets into his palm, then grabs the glass and swallows the pills while chugging most of the now room-temperature water.

When he moves to set the glass back down, he sees a torn piece of notebook paper on the table, damp and water-stained from the condensation of the glass that had been sitting on it. He grabs it and slouches down against the pillow and blankets as he reads Bahorel's scratchy, sprawling handwriting.

> _Hey R,_
> 
> _Sorry I'm not around, I had to get to work. Feel free to eat whatever you can find in the kitchen. I'll be home a little after 3, but don't feel obligated to stick around if you gotta get home. See you later._
> 
> _\--Bahorel_

Grantaire reads it two more times before he folds it and curls his hand around it. The ink might bleed a little more from the wet spots, but it doesn't really matter. With a sigh and more effort than it should take, he pushes himself out of the bed and wobbles for a moment before stuffing the note into one of his trouser pockets. His next task will take a bit more coordination and he just stands and breathes for a few minutes while his head throbs in vivid shades of red. The bathroom is right outside the bedroom, to the left, if he remembers correctly, and he hopes he does, but he could be very wrong considering how far gone he was last night.

Embarrassment grips Grantaire and he feels like throwing up again, but there's nothing in his stomach aside from aspirin and water and it just gurgles and sloshes unpleasantly as he starts to walk. He can't believe he even called Bahorel last night - what was he _thinking_? They barely even know each other and now Bahorel has seen a really shitty (really _large_ ) part of who Grantaire really is. He can't believe he even brought him into his home after seeing him like that.

He makes it to the edge of the bedroom where he leans against the doorframe and tries not to think about how shitty of a person he is while he glances down the hallway to check for the bathroom. He was right, it is to the left, and he trails his palm against the wall for balance as he walks, head throbbing in time with his footfalls or his pulse, he can't tell which.

The afternoon passes quickly after his trip to the bathroom, and Grantaire sits on Bahorel's couch where he can't decide whether he's going to leave or not. He spends a while staring at the television's blank screen and when he glances up, the clock on the cable box above it tells him it's already half past two.

The minutes mock him as they pass, and he takes breaths so deep they make his lungs hurt, but they keep his pulse from racing and his hands from shaking. For now.

He sits for another few minutes before he decides that he'll wait for Bahorel to get home before he leaves, and he really hopes Bahorel didn't say he could stay just to be nice. He already feels like he's been enough of a burden as doesn't want to add to it with his continued presence if it's not really wanted.

The note, Grantaire also recalls, mentioned that he could eat whatever he finds in the kitchen, and it gives him an idea. Perhaps he can make a late lunch for he and Bahorel, and maybe it won't be so weird that he's stayed in Bahorel's flat all day while he was at work. Maybe it will make up for what an embarrassment he is.

Bahorel's kitchen is small, with an efficiency stove, but Grantaire is sure he can manage to cook with it just fine. There isn't much in the fridge, or freezer, but he finds a couple chicken breasts that don't look freezer-burned, and some relatively fresh salad, which comes as a surprise. Though he supposes he doesn't really know Bahorel, so it's not entirely fair to assume what he'd eat or not.

In one of the cabinets, Grantaire finds enough spices that he can actually season the chicken with, and he wishes he had some avocado to go with everything. Beggars can't be choosers, he reminds himself as he searches through the rest of the cabinets in search of a frying pan. He opens the one closest to the fridge, and there is an assortment of coffees, hot cocoas, and teas, along with a few bottles of alcohol.

Grantaire hates himself a little as he pours himself a fourth of a glass of whiskey, though the feeling subsides slightly with the burn of the amber liquid sliding down his throat.

He stares at it for a moment, toying with the cap, screwing and unscrewing it before sighing and putting it back where he'd found it. The clock on the stove tells him he has fifteen minutes before Bahorel will probably be home.

It's definitely not how he would prefer to defrost the chicken, but time is against him, so Grantaire puts the chicken breasts in a bowl and pops them into the microwave for a few minutes while he continues searching for the pans, and he sets it on the stove with a flourish once he does. It takes him a little longer to find cooking oil, and he's given an idea upon seeing a bottle of vinegar sitting with it. The ingredients are hardly ideal, but he's sure he can whip up an edible dressing for the salad, especially with the spices Bahorel has. He double checks the fridge for more potential ingredients and finds a half-empty jar of spicy mustard. It's close enough to what he wants for a proper vinaigrette, so he pulls it out and sets it on the counter with the spices, oil, and vinegar.

The minutes keep on ticking, and cooking is helping him keep his panic at bay, because he knows it's silly, knows that it's fairly reasonably that Bahorel actually _does_ like him, but he still feels out of place and very much like he's imposing.

He finishes the small glass of whiskey he'd poured in one gulp and goes to check on the chicken.

The centres are still a little frozen, but he's unwilling to defrost them more, knowing the microwave will start cooking the meat if he attempts to leave it in any longer. He grabs the sponge from the sink and wipes a section of counter down before plopping the chicken down onto it. It doesn't take long for him to find the utensil drawer, and he uses the sharpest knife he can find to cut the fat from the breasts before slicing them into long, fairly thin strips, which he then cuts in half. They go into the frying pan with a bit of oil, some garlic, salt, pepper, and a bit of thyme.

While the chicken begins to cook, Grantaire pulls two large bowls out and sets them on the table where he fills them with the salad. He grabs another bowl which he pours some of the vinegar into, then spoons in a bit of the mustard he'd found, and adds some thyme and a bit of basil. He whisks it all together with a fork, then slowly pours the oil in, mixing it carefully so it actually combines properly. Once he's satisfied, he adds a dash of salt and pepper, then he dips a finger in to taste it and grins, proud of himself and his successful improvisation.

The chicken is half browned when Grantaire returns his attention to it, and he grabs the handle of the pan to shake it, using the momentum of the pan to flip the meat over and managing not to spill any onto the stove. It's a few minutes past three now, and the note said Bahorel would be home around now, which would be perfect for serving the food. There's a moment where Grantaire stares at the chicken sizzling in the pan and all he can think is, _What if he hates it? What if he's not hungry? What if he really didn't want me to stay and was expecting that I'd leave despite his offer?_

The sound of the door opening startles him from his thoughts, however, and he turns to greet Bahorel who looks significantly more clean cut than he has at the meetings.

"Hey!" he says with almost too much enthusiasm, but Grantaire finds himself smiling anyway. "I thought you'd be gone by now. Guessing you got my note." Bahorel is grinning as he kicks his shoes off, and he deftly undoes the top two buttons of his dress shirt as he strides into the kitchen.

"Yeah, I uh. I made lunch for us?" Grantaire offers, and he glances at the chicken before turning the heat off, because it's almost on the verge of over-cooking.

Bahorel looks honestly surprised, and his grin softens into a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes in a way that makes Grantaire's mouth go dry. "Thanks man, you really didn't have to."

Grantaire uses a fork to push the chicken into the bowls with the salad, dividing it evenly between them to give him something to distract himself with so he doesn't have to maintain eye contact. "It's the least I can do after last night..."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Bahorel says with a chuckle, and Grantaire doesn't have to look at him to know he's watching his every move. "Shit, that smells _amazing_."

Once the chicken is doled out, Grantaire whisks the dressing again and pours a bit of it over each salad, then he pushes one toward Bahorel. "I hope you like it."

Bahorel stares at the salad for a minute, then shifts his gaze to the bowl still half-filled with dressing and Grantaire thinks he's done something wrong before Bahorel looks up at him, almost incredulous expression on his face. "Did you seriously _make_ the dressing? You're officially the most awesome person I know."

"I-- um. ...thanks." Grantaire can feel himself blushing, and there's a strange sense of pride underneath it as Bahorel takes his first bite of the salad and hums in delight.

Staying, Grantaire decides, wasn't worth all the worry he'd wasted on it.


End file.
